


Eidolon

by ghostwriting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriting/pseuds/ghostwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eidolon (noun): 1. a phantom; apparition. 2. an ideal. </p><p>When Sherlock returns three years on, John still thinks that he's a figment of his hallucinations. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eidolon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [packdynamic](http://packdynamic.tumblr.com/).

It was raining the day Sherlock showed up at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was away on a short vacation to another part of the country, and Sherlock had heard that John would be staying over at 221B to keep the rent for 221C in check while ensuring that everything else in the house was well maintained in her absence. That would be the first time John had returned to Baker Street in three years, and Sherlock had told himself that when John returned, he would too.

It was close to eleven when Sherlock made it to the front door with the collar of his coat upturned and relatively dry. Dodging the rain was a tedious process of moving swiftly under umbrellas and walking under shelters, but the rain and night proved to be necessary and effective covers for his first return. Little attention had been given to the tall man in a down coat and blue scarf.

Sherlock pulled a hand out of his pocket and rang the doorbell with minimal hesitation. The trip had been carefully planned out, and his apology scripted weeks before. As he heard the knowing ring of the doorbell and slightly uneven footsteps moving down the stairs, he straightened his shoulders and braced himself. He had imagined every possible look of hurt and anger that could cross John’s face. Even then, Sherlock knew that nothing he imagined would compare to the real thing.

The man that greeted him at the door was sallow and work-worn, eyes lacking the life that was once familiar to him.

“John,” was the whisper that escaped, crafted speech dying on his tongue.

Sherlock watched as exhaustion and a hint of pain flickered in John’s eyes, before disappearing as if they were never there.

“John, I’m – “

“It’s fine,” John replied as he waited for Sherlock to enter. “Better get in before the rain does. You know how Mrs. Hudson doesn’t like to have her carpets all moist and damp.”

When Sherlock continued to stand at the door, frowning at the glaring lack of anger and the implied normality of the situation, John sighed.

“Really, it’s fine,” John said, noticing the rain that had begun to soak the front of carpet in the hallway. “Just come in, okay?”

* * *

That evening, John did not appear to acknowledge Sherlock’s presence, though he would respond if Sherlock spoke. Otherwise, John went about his own business, burying himself in his work, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

Sherlock moved about the apartment, and noticed that little had changed since he left. Many pieces of furniture were left in their original position, including the sofa and the worktable. His books were left untouched, but as Sherlock ran a finger along the spines of the books, he noted the dust had not settled on them. His makeshift laboratory in the kitchen had been cleared to make way for a proper dining table, while the refrigerator of human body parts was removed and stocked with eggs, milk, and microwave dinners.

Sherlock closed the refrigerator and glanced at the door to his room. Unlike the rest of the house, the door was covered with a thin film of dust. He contemplated entering, but decided against it for the time being. Instead, he headed back into the living room, where he found John dozing with his head resting on an arm.

Sherlock bent down next to him, reaching to remove the book that was progressively slipping out of his hand. John stirred, blinking blearily at Sherlock, before getting up and fetching blankets from the floor below.  By the time he returned, dressed in blue, striped pajamas, and hands full with pillows and blankets, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa John had recently vacated, fingers pressed together, deep in thought.

He looked up when John entered and watched as he sighed. Sherlock could not make sense of the defeated manner in which he sighed, or why he sighed so often.  He opened his mouth to ask if something was bothering him, only to be silenced by the raise of a hand.  Sherlock watched as John arranged the pillows and blankets on the sofa, lying down with Sherlock still at the edge of the furniture.

“I should go,” said Sherlock.

“No,” said John, quietly shifting his head to look at him. “It’s fine. Stay.”

Sherlock moved to sit on the floor, before positioning himself nearer to the side of the sofa where John’s head was resting. They looked at each other, with only the sound of their breathing to break the silence. John yawned and blinked slowly. Sherlock noticed the little bit of life that crept back into his eyes as they looked at each other, and took in every bit of emotion that he was able to get. There was that hint of hurt, but more than that was the yearning that passed with every blink.

Sherlock reached out to touch his hand, only to have John shift his own hand away from Sherlock’s reach. John shut his eyes, swallowed hard, and turned away. Sherlock’s hand was left hanging in midair before he finally chose to set it down on his own lap. 

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock woke with an awful cramp in his left leg and the sound of tea being made. He pulled himself to his feet and made his way to the kitchen where he saw John frowning at the large pot of tea that he was in the midst of brewing and the two mugs that he had laid out.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and noticed the stiffening of John’s shoulders.

“Good morning,” said Sherlock, taking a step into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” replied John quietly.

“What are you brewing?” asked Sherlock.

“Cinnamon,” he answered, shifting the kettle off the stove.

Sherlock tilted his head inquisitively, and commented, without quite meaning to, “That’s my favourite.”

A half-hearted laugh escaped John’s lips. “I know.”

He proceeded to empty the contents of the kettle into two mugs. He chose to leave the one intended for Sherlock on the counter before taking his own mug and headed for the dining table.

“I never stopped making enough for two,” came the quiet whisper that was only meant for John’s ears, though it was not hard for Sherlock to piece together what little he heard into a proper sentence.

John’s eyes were steady on his own mug as he sat at the table, carefully avoiding Sherlock.

Sherlock stood at the counter, away from John, watching the tealeaves swirl to the bottom of his mug.

“Are you certain that you’re all right?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” replied John, as he lifted the mug to his lips, allowing the spicy concoction run down his throat.

“Has work at the hospital kept you busy?”

“I resigned.”

Sherlock turned to look at John. That was unexpected.

“Why?”

John gripped his mug tightly, lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

“I was under therapy for the longest time. I wasn’t getting any better so it was only a matter of time before they would fire me,” John smiled wryly. “No one wants a doctor who isn’t well.”

* * *

The days continued to pass, with John being quiet and lifeless, and Sherlock trying his best to get John better again. His state reminded him of the man he was before they met and lived together. The only difference was that he did not know the cure for the situation.

Sherlock never went back into his room and chose to sit by John every night by the sofa instead. Sometimes Sherlock would sleep at the armchair at the front of the living room, other times he would rest his head next to John’s and sleep in an awkward inclined position. Something that he had come to notice was that John refused to allow any physical contact to occur between them. Whenever Sherlock reached out, John would pull back. When he walked towards him, John would take a step back and ask him to stop. It was a process that was both puzzling and frustrating with the continual look of pain that crossed John’s face. The lack of proper conversation did little to improve the situation.

Sometimes Sherlock would leave 221B Baker Street to visit Lestrade and Molly just to let them know how things were progressing. He had let Molly handle Lestrade as far as the process of his survival went, and he had sent a brief text to Mycroft that required minimal explanation. His brother took it surprisingly well, though his mother did not do quite the same. Nevertheless, his mother was always Mycroft’s business, hence, there was little to worry in that department.

He had rung up Mrs. Hudson’s vacation home and did some explaining and apologizing. She spent some time crying, but seemed happy enough to learn that he and John were staying together again. He had specifically left out the bit about the progression of their relationship.

Through his brief conversation with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock learned that John had been going for therapy since his disappearance, but had recently stopped. John had also been working at the clinic down the street for two years, but decided quit at the beginning of that year, taking up editorial for a small newspaper company instead. That being said, Mrs. Hudson was convinced that John had been more than fine, and showed no signs of being exhausted. Molly conveyed the same piece of news to Sherlock after her visit to Lestrade, where he enquired the same information about John.

That night, Sherlock spent the night watching John sleep and wondered just how long their distance was going to hold.

* * *

The following week, Sherlock was needed at St. Bart’s. However, he was only given the opportunity to work after hours due to his undercover status, which also meant that he could not return to Baker Street. He had passed the message to John that morning, and received a single nod in return. Nothing more was said about his upcoming absence.

When Sherlock returned home three days later, he found John seated comfortably in the armchair facing away from the door, flipping through one of Sherlock’s old books. The tension that Sherlock constantly saw in his shoulders was not there, and if anything, he appeared to be at ease.

“I quite like the main character in this book,” commented Sherlock as he looked over John’s shoulder at the novel in his hands.

John’s shoulders tensed instantly. John whirled around, book forgotten, and face contorting in frustration. Within the next few minutes, he proceeded to burst into Sherlock’s room, flung books, papers, glass and pens off the table, all the while coming close to ripping the sheets on his bed. Sherlock stood watching as John tore his room apart before crumpling in a defeated heap in the middle of the room, and began to sob.

Sherlock felt a dull ache in his chest and realized, with distress, that he had never felt so weak in his life.

* * *

That night, John found himself lying on the sofa bed, fingers bandaged, watching as Sherlock paced up and down the front of the living room. John had tended to his own fingers, and neither of them had bothered to tidy the mess in Sherlock’s room.

It was past midnight when John fell asleep, and it was only then did Sherlock cease pacing and moved close enough to take John’s hands into his own.

* * *

Several weeks went by and John had gone about fixing Sherlock’s room, sweeping the floors and replacing the bed sheets. There was still limited progress in terms of conversation, but Sherlock had come home one day to find John sitting in his room with his eyes closed. Sherlock had taken the space next to him and they sat in companionable silence for the rest of the evening. It was almost as if John was unaware of his presence. Sherlock welcomed the peace, and for once, he was tempted to believe that everything was all right.

Some days, John would be well and they would sit together, though John hardly ever paid much attention to him. During these days, he would work and rest in proportion, and at night, he would let Sherlock sit close enough for their fingers to touch. Other days, Sherlock would return to broken glassware and toppled bookcases. During those nights, Sherlock would watch helplessly as John stifled sobs through the night.

* * *

The following week, John received a brief text message from Lestrade, indicating that he would be visiting that day for tea. He mentioned that he had matters to discuss, and no further details were given.

John began preparing for his visit while Sherlock reclined on the sofa, flipping through a copy of John’s recently edited newspaper.

“You didn’t tell me about a girlfriend,” commented Sherlock, looking up as John straightened the room.

“I don’t need to have a girlfriend to make sure that visitors are comfortable,” replied John as he set the kettle on the stove.

“Who’s the visitor?”

“Lestrade.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock folded the paper and sat up. “What for?”

“He didn’t elaborate in his message,” answered John.

A few minutes passed before Sherlock spoke again.

“Are you all right?”

John barely looked up.

“Yes. You‘ve asked me that before.”

“But you haven’t – “

The doorbell rang.

“I’d better get that,” interrupted John.

Sherlock watched as he disappeared down the steps and came back minutes later with Lestrade following closely. Sherlock could barely recognize John. There was light in his eyes and easiness was drawn across his features. The only aspect that prevented Sherlock from thinking that Lestrade had kidnapped his John was the tense way in which he held his body that never left since Sherlock’s return.

Lestrade entered the room as John proceeded into the kitchen. Upon seeing Sherlock, he acknowledged him with a nod. Sherlock trusted that Molly had done a good job in passing on the message of his survival to Lestrade.

“Have a seat, I’ll be right over,” called John from the kitchen.

“Thanks, John,” replied Lestrade as he took the seat next to Sherlock.

“Molly told me everything, as you would probably be aware,” said Lestrade as he gave Sherlock a once-over. “How have you been?”

“Well enough,” answered Sherlock shortly.

“And John?”

Sherlock found himself glancing at the kitchen.

“He’s fine.”

“He does seem well enough,” agreed Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned.

“Has he always been like this?”

“It took about six months after you left, but he got better so quickly, even Mrs. Hudson couldn’t quite believe it,” nodded Lestrade.

“No outbursts or occasional lapses? Nothing?”

“Nothing. In fact, he’s been happy, though he did quit his job at the clinic to take up a newspaper job. He has lost some weight, but it’s mostly due to the occupation shift.”

“What about the therapy?”

Lestrade opened his mouth respond, only to be interrupted by a loud clatter of mugs and bowls.

John stood at the door to the kitchen, white as a sheet.

Sherlock glanced at the mess on the floor before he began to move towards John, concerned.

“John?”

“Lestrade,” John said shakily, raising a hand to stop Sherlock from coming any closer. “I just want you to answer me by saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Nothing else unless I ask you.”

Lestrade nodded, worried about the manner in which John was beginning to sway on his feet.

“Are there two people in this room?”

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock. “No.”

“How many?”

“Three,” answered Lestrade.

John looked as if he were ready to be sick.

“Is Sherlock in this room?” asked John, gripping the arm of a chair to steady himself.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, confused.

“I’m right here, John. What are you talking about?” said Sherlock.

“I’m not asking you,” said John, voice tight. “Answer me, Lestrade.”

“Yes,” answered Lestrade, gesturing towards Sherlock. “He’s right there.”

“Oh god,” rasped John. “You can see him too.”

Those were the last words that escaped his mouth before John’s legs gave way, and he lost consciousness.

* * *

John woke to a dull throbbing in his head.

“You’re awake.”

John shut his eyes. Despite the room being far too bright, and he knew almost instantly that he was in Sherlock’s room.

“Lestrade.”

“You passed out,” said Lestrade.

“Yes, I know,” said John, pinching the bridge of his nose.

John heard the sound of a set of footsteps and the close of the bedroom door. Whispers were exchanged before a scrape of a chair against the floor indicated that Lestrade was retrieving his coat.

“I’ll be back later this evening,” said Lestrade to Sherlock, casting a glance towards John before heading out the door.

John listened as Sherlock began to approach him and tried not to stiffen.

“I made tea,” said Sherlock, placing the mug on his desk before reaching to loosen the blinds that allowed far too much sunlight in the room. “Green earl grey.”

“No sugar,” he added, with the slide of the blinds.

John was silent as Sherlock returned to the side of the bed.

“I have reason to believe that it will help with recovery,” said Sherlock.

Still, there was no reply. Sherlock moved to the other side of the bed and sat without invitation. John barely flinched as the mattress dipped heavily to the left.

“Hallucinations, hmm?” mused Sherlock, toeing his shoes off and climbing onto the bed. “That’s the reason why you’ve been going to therapy?”

As Sherlock began to move closer, John found it harder not to withdraw and run out the door. It was bearable before, but that was only because he imagined him to be a figment of his imagination, not flesh and bone.

“John,” said Sherlock gently, shifting close enough for John to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

How was he supposed to react? Three years and he had dealt with enough pain for a lifetime. First it was the grieving, then the nightmares, then the anger, and then the hallucinations. Three years, and he had seen five different therapists who seemed ready to classify him as hopeless case. Enough had been enough, and John was tired of the sorry looks and being treated like he was a fragile being. He had shoved the pain and hallucinations under the mask of easiness and recovery. While everyone seemed surprised at the sudden change, no one questioned it and everyone believed that John had gotten over the death of his friend. It seemed better that way. Gone were the pitying glances and words of empty consolation. People left him the way he was, and John only took his hurt and anger out behind closed doors. The day his resolve slipped and he began speaking to a hallucination of Sherlock at the clinic, John quit his job and chose to work from home as the editor of the small local newspaper company to escape it all.

“John, if I knew how much – “

“No,” interrupted John, forcing his eyes open and pushing himself up to a sitting position. He ignored the nausea and the throbbing and the fact that Sherlock was looking at him not with pity but with pain. “Don’t you dare apologise. I don’t want to hear it. I am not ill, and I – “

Sherlock reached out and pulled John towards him, interrupting him midsentence by wrapping him in an embrace that he thought he would never give. John’s body was warm against his own, trembling slightly from the surprise of being pulled close. Sherlock could feel the soft rhythm of John’s heartbeat, and he was certain that John could feel his too.

“I know. You just didn’t want to let go,” whispered Sherlock. “You could, but you didn’t because you trusted me. You knew.”

John, feeling the pent up frustration welling up in the form of tears, took a deep breath to will them away. This drew Sherlock’s attention, and upon noticing the stray tears that fell from his eyes, pulled back and attempted to brush them away. John, noticing the concern, turned his face away, embarrassed.

“Not good?” asked Sherlock, amused at the uncomfortable way in which John began mopping his own face with the sleeve of his sweater.

“A bit not good, yes,” said John, turning his face away.

A split second of silence passed between them before they erupted in laughter.

By the time their laughter died down, both had tears in their eyes, and neither knew what they were laughing about. Sherlock lowered his head, stealing a quick glance at John, and was surprised when his gaze was met by answering eyes and a hesitant purse of lips.

“Despite all that, you’re still apologising?” asked John as Sherlock held his gaze.

“Yes.”

“What for?”

Sherlock’s eyes ran over the sharp lines that framed the sides of John’s face that were not there before and the shadows that under his eyes that grew darker by day. John watched the gradual softening of Sherlock’s eyes.

“For what I’ve done to you.”

John huffed. “You give yourself too much credit.”

The sides of Sherlock’s mouth twitched slightly.

“But I’d be glad to do these three years over if that were the case, because Sherlock,” continued John, looking away. “That’s what I agreed to do since the day we met.”

John waited as his words sank in.

“I didn’t – ”

He raised his eyes. “You said ‘Could be dangerous’, and here I was,” said John. “For better or for worse.”

Neither of them said anything for the next few minutes, and John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock realised that this was not what he came back for.

John figured that this was probably enough for one day and started to get off the bed. Lestrade would be back later, and later was probably soon.

“Could be dangerous,” John repeated quietly to himself before he headed out of the bedroom, giving Sherlock the space he knew he would need to think.

* * *

Lestrade returned later that evening with cases to consult Sherlock, and that was really the only reason why he visited other than to request that those cases were specifically left out of tomorrow’s copy of the local paper that John was working on.

Little passed between them as they worked on their separate projects that night with Sherlock in the kitchen and John in the living room. Minutes stretched into hours, and by the time Sherlock had completed his research, the sun had begun to rise over Baker Street. Pushing his chair back, Sherlock stretched before heading to the living room to check on John, the previous day’s conversation and happenings still fresh in his mind.

As he entered the room, John’s gazed flicked upwards. Their eyes met, and John set aside his papers, sitting a little straighter as he did so. He could tell from the look on Sherlock’s face that it was something important, and he would have to listen to it, whether he liked it or not.

“I’m married to my work,” began Sherlock, hands pressed together.

“Yes,” said John, interlocking his fingers as he tried not to sigh. “I know.”

“I cannot change, John.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“No,” said Sherlock, raising his hands. “No, you don’t understand. I _cannot_ change. I will make you go through this again, and I _cannot_ do anything about it.”

“And you don’t understand when I say that _I am not asking you to_ ,” repeated John.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

“No, you won’t. Now stop being an annoying dick,” John picked up the papers and began arranging them, signalling the end of the conversation. He reached for his coat and headed for the door.

“I need to deliver these to the office,” said John, checking his watch and then the window. It had begun to rain, so he grabbed the umbrella too.

* * *

Perhaps Sherlock was uncomfortable, thought John as he stepped onto the rain-soaked streets. That would explain why he had been so eager to distance himself from him and why he insisted otherwise despite John explicitly stating that he wanted their relationship to continue as it was.

What _was_ their relationship?

They were colleagues before.

Then they were friends.

More friends than colleagues, thought John, but Sherlock probably thought differently and did not expect the emotional tangle that came with all of this. 

And if John were to be entirely frank, neither did he.

John climbed the short flight of stairs up to the office, dropped the papers off with the secretary at the desk, did his usual greetings of, “Hey”, “Hi”, “How are you doing”, and “Good day”, and headed back out onto the streets.

He liked that part about his job. Minimal human interaction, a clear job scope, and plenty of personal time. That was the way things were after the war.

That was also the way things were after Sherlock disappeared.

The rain had stopped.

John stuck his hand into the pockets of his coat. The early morning chill was turning into a biting cold that even he did not find quite so pleasant.

As painful the three years of absence had been, now that Sherlock was back again, John did not dare hope that things would revert back to the way they were before.

Sherlock would not want any of that.

Not when he had seen how much John had declined over the years.

And he was right when he insisted that it was all because of him.

John imagined what might have gone through Sherlock’s brilliant mind during the past weeks and months when he had seen him act like a madman within the four walls of 221B Baker Street.

He imagined what might have gone through his mind when Sherlock stared into his eyes every night and reached for his hand, only to be met with an outright rejection.

He imagined what might have happened if he had let him touch.

There was a piercing screech as a car swerved and tires resisted the lack in friction on the asphalt. A hand reached out and closed around the small of John’s wrist, yanking him backwards. The sudden pull knocked the umbrella he was holding out of his hand and onto the pavement.

The car narrowly missed him as the driver yelled a hurried apology before continuing its journey like the near-accident never happened; and it would have, if John had not found that he was staring at a blue scarf that was all too familiar.

The hand that pulled him back lingered on his wrist as John stepped back.

That was not the only thing that he noticed.

As he looked up, John found fear in Sherlock’s eyes, genuine fear that was directed at him, for him.

Just him.

And there was worry there too.

John met Sherlock’s intense gaze with wide, unblinking eyes. He was afraid to breathe as Sherlock did nothing but look at him, as if he could not trust himself to speak.

“How long have you been following me?” John asked, surprised at the manner in which his voice shook.

Sherlock was afraid for _him_ , thought John, because Sherlock was emotionally tangled too.

Sherlock Holmes, the high-functioning sociopath, the most human human being John has ever known, wanted to protect him from Sherlock himself, because he knew that he would not be able to pull back.

Sherlock could not pull back.

“Since the beginning,” he answered.

The hand on his wrist tightened minutely, as if to pull him closer, but they stood resolutely in place seconds later as they were before.

That was when John decided, against all rational and logical thinking, to fist a hand in Sherlock’s scarf and used it as leverage as he leaned up to press his lips against Sherlock’s.

Soft lips grazed slightly chapped ones, and the kiss barely lasted a second, but John had felt it. He felt Sherlock’s breathing still and the shift of the hand on his wrist.

He felt the beginnings of a response during the millisecond that the kiss had taken place, but moved away too quickly to have seen it through.

They looked at each other, and for a brief moment, John saw an intense longing in his blue eyes that gradually faded as Sherlock released his wrist.

“Reckless driving early in the morning,” commented Sherlock, as if nothing had passed between them.

John tucked his hand into a coat pocket, warm from the touch. He checked the surroundings and found that the street was deserted.

“Must have had a drop too much.”

“Well, yes, good deduction,” mused Sherlock, looking down at him with a newly closed and unreadable gaze.  “It’s becoming quite a trend. You should be more careful.”

“I will.”

Sherlock bent down to retrieve the umbrella that had fallen out of John’s hand earlier, and as he handed it to him, there was a distinct spark in his eye that indicated that he was aware of what just passed, but it was mixed with a good degree of hesitation.

“I know why you’re worried,” said John. “But there is more to this than just us.”

“Is there?”

“Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, victims, people.”

“And I can’t do all that on my own?”

“You can,” admitted John. “I never said you couldn’t.”

Sherlock eyed him again, and after seconds of silence, John said, “Look, I’m not pressuring you to do anything about what just happened, and I’m not about to break with a rejection.”

John made a face. “I think I should know considering the number of failed relationships I’ve been through. But Sherlock, nothing needs to be done, okay? Nothing. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. This conversation sounded familiar.

“John, I’ve mentioned before that I’m married to – “

“Yes, your work, I know. You can stop repeating that because I am not competing with your work, and don’t you dare act as if you weren’t going to kiss me back because I felt it,” interrupted John, blushing immediately after.

“I have never wanted to before,” added Sherlock in a manner in which you would state that the sun rises from the east. “Which is why I cannot deduce what might happen if we worked together again.”

“Because of what happened with Moriarty and Irene?”

John noticed the subtle tightening of Sherlock’s features at the mention of their names.

“Just because you think that love and feelings are dangerous disadvantages does not mean everyone has to feel the same way.”

“It is a fact,” stated Sherlock.

“The world does not consist of _just_ facts. Take the time to _feel_ something.”

“I have, and look what happened.”

“What happened?” John asked.

Sherlock stared evenly at him. “You could have died.”

“And I could have died any other day with or without you. In fact, I distinctly remember you being unperturbed by the fact that I was about to get shot by a Chinese lady due to a case of mistaken identity three years back,” said John. “I could have died while I was in Afghanistan, and that was before we met.”

John sighed. “Nothing happened just because you realised you felt something. You’ve always been a human being, and I like to think that I know you enough to decide that no one will ever convince me that you’re a liar or a psychopath.”

He paused and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the streets behind that were beginning to get busy. How long had they been here?

“Just because something is beating under all that flesh and bone does not make you any less brilliant, and it doesn’t make you any more vulnerable. It doesn’t put me, or the people you care about, in any more danger than we already were when we decided to believe in you.”

John checked his watch. It had been almost an hour since he headed out to deliver the papers. He looked at Sherlock who had his gaze on the ground.

“You like the danger, don’t you?” said Sherlock, raising his eyes.

John met his gaze. “You’re one to say.”

Sherlock looked away and could not resist the smile that pulled at his lips. “I see your point, John.”

“All your points,” he corrected.

John eyed him skeptically. “And?”

“And?” repeated Sherlock with a tilt of his head.

“What do you think?” prompted John.

Sherlock paused, and answered, “I think that the outcome was never mine to decide.”

He raised his eyes again.

“What do _you_ think?”

John blinked, lowering his eyes.

“I think it takes a lot for someone to believe that a living, breathing person is a figment of his imagination. I think it shows just how much hurt has been done.”

A side of his mouth lifted.

“But at the same time, it reflects how important a person is and how much he matters. A few years ago, I would have thought that I was mad to view anyone in this manner, but now,” said John, smiling to himself. “Not so much anymore.”

“I think you’re wrong though,” continued John. “I don’t think that the outcome was never yours to decide. This is as much of your decision as it is mine, and it’s not hard. Not when you look past all the minor details that really aren’t that important.”

Sherlock was silent.

“I don’t really care if you’re married to your work. I don’t really care that I just kissed you, and I don’t really care if that means that I’m in love or if it is even reciprocated. What matters is that you understand that you’re important, and more than anything else, you’re a friend and human being. In fact, I’d honestly rather not think about that right now.”

John shrugged.

“Just like the certainty of death, the certainty of getting hurt is there, and it doesn’t matter. Not to me. Because I’d rather be solving a mystery and running through the streets of London with you than to worry about a three-year hiatus that involves more pain than I could have ever imagined, and enough trips to a psychiatrist to drive me insane.”

When he finally looked up, Sherlock had a slight smile tugging at his lips.

“There are probably more, but it should be safe to assume that if you feel the same way, we should have the rest of our lives for me to share all that,” said John.

He paused as a woman passed them.

“And you?” said John, after taking a deep breath.

Sherlock looked at John with his worn expression and sincere brown eyes and found that ‘the rest of our lives’ was an idea that he liked very much. His mind went back to the three years that he had spent away from John, having to settle for watching him from a distance. Even so, he had not been there to witness his decline and knew little of what he had gone through over the past few years. Sherlock tried to imagine life without a friend, life before they met.

He stuck his hands into his pockets; eyes steady on John’s.

There was nothing else he wanted more.

“I think Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson has a certain ring to it.”

An incredulous look passed John’s face before a small smile broke through.

“You don’t say.”

* * *

The previous night had been a long one, and after the all-nighter that both John and Sherlock pulled, John was in rather desperate need of a nap. The blinds were pulled and John settled comfortably on the sofa bed, the morning’s events still fresh but comforting in his mind.

John began to drift asleep when he felt a hand over his own.

He opened his eyes and stared at the bleary figure in front of him. Sherlock was kneeling by his side, almost in the exact same position on the night he first returned. John’s stomach lurched uncomfortably as he began to wonder if his mind had been playing tricks on him after all. However, the nausea dissolved when Sherlock tightened the grip on his hand, assuring him that he was indeed flesh and bone.

“It’s just me,” said Sherlock.

“Hey,” mumbled John as he shifted to get a better look at Sherlock. “Something wrong?”

Sherlock watched as brown eyes focused on him and he felt a slight flutter in his chest. It felt as if John was truly seeing him as a living, breathing person for the first time in a long while.

“No.”

John looked down at the hand that covered his own.

“You’re not tired?” asked John.

“A little,” replied Sherlock.

A pocket of silence filled the room, with only the sound of their breathing to break it.

“I’m tired,” John added.

Sherlock rested his head against the arm rest of the sofa bed, listening to John’s breathing as he traced his face with his eyes. The rest that was written over his features was assuring to finally see after weeks of exhaustion.

It was ironic how he was the cause of exhaustion and rest.

“It’s fine,” he said, more to himself than John.

The silence stretched, and for a minute, Sherlock almost believed that John had fallen asleep.

“What is?” asked John finally, eyes still closed.

Sherlock watched him as he gradually opened his eyes at the lack of a reply.

“This.”

This friendship, this situation, this return.

It was hardly true that everything was fine, but things were getting better, and they could only get better. Three years was a long absence, and the both of them had only just begun to understand their relationship and mend all that was broken while Sherlock was gone.

It was small progress, but it was enough.

It was enough for the both of them.

John tilted his head upwards to look at Sherlock and mirrored the smile that was in his eyes.

“I think so too.”


End file.
